Game of Power

By: Zavijah

" Men are only clever at shifting blame from their own shoulders to those of others."

Power.

Sometimes Rufus had to wonder if there really was such a thing that could be defined by that single word. Sure there was the Mako energy that was pumped from the ground—sucked from the earth by huge reactors, which lined the city like a protective barrier. Whether it was to keep the bad out, or to trap it within, Rufus had yet to decide. What he knew was the visible green energy was the very life of the planet and his city thrived off of its phantom taste. Midgar ate it up little by little because that energy was the power, and every man wanted more than his fair share. Their voracious appetites were never satisfied, so Rufus continued to feed them like the livestock they resembled. Filthy, foul-smelling herd of dolts, that's what they were to him when he looked down at the slums from his office window. Yes, the Mako was the real power, yet the people around him continued to think that he had the power. So when they, the cattle, were not happily fed to their fulfillment, they complained to him.

But no matter what, they were never happy. If Rufus fed them anymore, then small groups such as Avalanche would rise up and say he was the one killing the planet. Hypocrites. Couldn't they see that is was these people that were slowly eating away the world—yet they blamed Rufus. It was those that rebelled against him that were the very ones that used the Mako energy to light their houses, run their TVs, cook their food, pump their water. They were all such selfish creatures; always wanting more but never responsible enough to admit the consequences of their desires. It was their bottomless needs that were at fault, not Rufus.

But no, the people blamed him. Rufus didn't see how he had any connection to the woes of the dying planet. He merely ran the family business like it had been done for years before his time. He was not the one that had dreamt up the idea of taping into the lifestream as a source of energy, of power. It had been people like them that had drawn up the blueprints, built the reactors and manned the valves.

And now, they were blowing them up.

Rufus stared blankly, uncaringly out of the large window of his new office. It had not even been a week since his father had died from a heart attack—something that didn't surprise the young man when the fatal moment had occurred in that very room. The late president had always been such a fat, stupid man in the cold eyes of his only son. Rufus didn't grieve, he had hated his father with an icy passion—but that was not the point that he wanted to make. As he thought before, it wasn't even a week since he took over the business and already he was forced to watch a mockery to his 'power'.

The edge of his city was burning. Dark gray clouds billowed up into the moonlit sky. Its source was one of the Mako reactors, tower number five to be exact—some rebellious group had decided that blowing up their way of life sent some kind of powerful message to Rufus. It didn't. He impassively watched the base of the tower that savagely burned in dark oranges, reds and wisps of yellows—but the colors were hard to pick out through the thick black smoke that coated over the rest of the slums like a plague.

"Silly. Little. Fools." Rufus slowly pronounced each word so that every one was calm, yet held his strong distaste for the responsible party.

Tomorrow a new flood of complaints would come pouring in as soon as ShinRa Headquarters opened their doors to the public. They would emerge from that black sea of their own creation, they'd crawl from the ashes charred and blue, and they would blame him. Bloodied hands would point at him, burnt lungs would scream for his death to replace the loved ones they had lost..

Rufus' gaze shifted to stare at the ghost of his reflection that appeared against the thick glass window. Steel blue eyes that held no remorse gazed back at him like chips of ice. He could see that his lips had drawn into a thin line to show his annoyance towards recent events. He really felt like that ghost of a man that he saw; empty, incomplete and not really a human at all. He was someone who was sick of dealing with the parasites below; sick of using money to solve their problems; sick of dealing with the scum like his father had done in the past. It was about time to change how things were done. Rufus was not like his preceding family—men who cowered behind their desks of imaginary power. He didn't have their tempers or gluttony to influence him to make choices that he would later regret. No. Rufus was a young, apathetic revolutionary that had only a shadow for a soul. He would be the one to change the world.

Feeling a bit smug, Rufus inclined his head at his doppelganger in silent judgment. He then turned back to sit at the desk that he had abandoned to watch the chaos unfold outside his dark, peaceful office. His fingers glided over the polished metal surface of the desk that was too large for any man—even too much for his obese father. The dull gray luster of professionalism made Rufus' stomach twist in knots. The office reminded him of a cold, sterile hospital room that made him uneasy. That was the reason Rufus never turned on the lights during the night, spare a single desk lamp. He preferred the dark's company to dull white walls, tiled floors and metal tables that screamed of needles and disturbing images of Hojo's scientific projects.

The desk would have to go. It took up half the room—why would anyone want something so large and bulky? Although, Rufus could see why a fool would do such a thing; for the same reason a man would buy a sleek, red convertible with black leather interior. It was a self-conscious trait; a weakness where a man would buy tangible objects to compensate for other things in their lives.

Judging by the size of the desk, the young blonde assumed that his father had a lot of things to compensate for. Rufus had nothing missing from his life, so the desk would have to go. A nice oak wood desk and deep hunter green carpet would be the replacement. Maybe he'd hang a few tasteful pictures on the wall—anything to cover up the meat locker appearance. It made Rufus wonder what the designers had been thinking when planning out the room. Did they think the place made a man feel professional, organized, calm and in control? What a wasted effort. Rufus was already a cold-hearted, control obsessed, methodical president of ShinRa—and he wanted carpet in his office, not hard tile floors that sounded each of his footsteps like gunfire.

Rufus pulled a fresh notebook from the top drawer and centered it in front of himself. A pen was soon in hand and blue eyes bore down on the parallel lines that divided the clean paper. It was a pity that he would have to ruin the perfect image—but he would try to write as neatly as possible. That notebook would soon be transformed into his life as Rufus wrote out the plans for his 'reign of terror' and then his ultimate downfall. He would be the tragic hero of the time, yet without the heroics—in short he would be the great tragedy suffered by the people.

A sly smirk graced Rufus' delicate features as he began to write. Midgar would be in for quite the surprise. Everything was going to change—just as soon as his secretary came to work in the morning. They were all going to be part of his game.. his game of power.

End Prologue

Notes: Rufus is just my outlet for a mixture of blood, death, violence—all the good stuff that can be associated with a handsome villain. This story doesn't really have direction, and don't be surprised if I make it slashy. (Likely a Reno/Rufus) And no, it would not be a happy, caring relationship. And no indentations makes me sad.